


No Such Thing as Ghosts

by thatawkwardfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Demons, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Horror, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor pining, Platonic Bed Sharing, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock and John are the idiots from horror movies you want to yell at, making out at inappropriate times, mentions of child death, sherlock is shirtless a lot in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12447472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatawkwardfriend/pseuds/thatawkwardfriend
Summary: Sherlock and John spend three nights in a mansion their client claims is haunted. But they're in no real danger, Sherlock reassures him. Obviously there's no such thing as ghosts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things!  
> 1\. This is a little fic I wrote for Halloween - not meant to be taken too seriously. It's just for fun!
> 
> 2\. I wrote using their dynamic from S1/2, but you can imagine this takes place whenever you want
> 
> 3\. Please read the tags 
> 
> 4.My tumblr is @one-thousand-splendid-stars if you want to say hi :) 
> 
> 5\. S4? I don't know her

“First aid kit?”

“In my duffel.”

“Gun?”

“Jacket.”

“Your silly snacks?”

“Bag. Here, you take some.” John removed two packets from his handbag and stuffed them into Sherlock’s coat.

“I don’t eat on a case, John.”

“Yeah, but my bag is heavy. Just hold them.” Sherlock huffed but allowed John to reach around his front and fill his pockets, ignoring the cabbie’s stares.

This weekend trip was last minute, but they had both packed their things by the time evening had rolled around and the sky had turned to dusk. They loaded their bags into the cab, continuing to check for all the essentials.

That very morning, a young woman had showed up to their flat, begging Sherlock to come see her late grandfather’s mansion in Manchester. Josephine was her name, John remembered. Josephine Walters.

She had recalled that as a little girl, odd things would happen when she visited her grandfather. A yank on her hair, breath on her face at night, a sudden temperature drop . . . No one had ever believed her. Everyone just chalked it up to a wild imagination. So when her grandfather, William Walters, died and didn’t leave her the mansion, she grew suspicious. She was his only family left and the mansion had been in their family for five generations. Naturally, it should have gone to her.

She suspected William knew something was wrong with that house, and had believed her all those years ago. By not leaving it to her in his will, he was protecting her. Keeping her away from it and all its mystery. 

“I don’t do _hauntings_ ,” Sherlock had spat, as if the word personally offended him.

But when Josephine told them about her grandmother who was found dead on the property several years ago, he began to lean forward, drinking in her words. The grandmother, Gina Walters, had hung herself shortly after her second child had mysteriously gone missing. And that was when Josephine remembered odd things beginning to happen in the mansion. There were rumors in the family that Gina had practiced witchcraft, and had somehow cursed the family. But they were nothing more than that - rumors. 

“Okay, we’ll take it,” Sherlock said with finality. John was shocked, unsure of what detail could have changed his mind so quickly.

“Oh, come on John! We could use a little weekend getaway. Besides, it’s not like anything else of interest has come our way in weeks.”

John smiled to himself remembering how Josephine had gawked when Sherlock grabbed his waist in excitement, ordering him pack his things.

And oh, _of course we won’t be in any real danger, John. Obviously there’s no such thing as ghosts._

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, pulling him back to the present. He opened the door, allowing John to climb in first. They settled in for the four-hour drive while the cabbie took off.

It quickly grew darker outside, and soon the inside of the cab was only lit by the passing streetlights. The gentle back-and-forth rock had lulled John into a content daze while Sherlock sat beside him lost in his mind palace.

He tried to catch at least an hour of sleep, since he figured they’d be up late investigating. After attempting several positions, he scooted over to Sherlock’s side and gave his arm a gentle nudge.

“Let me lean on you,” he mumbled quietly in the comfortable darkness.

“What?” Sherlock peeked one eye at him.

“The window’s hurting my head. Move your arm.”

Even in the dark, Sherlock’s eye roll wasn’t missed, although it failed to carry any real annoyance. He lifted his arm without separating his steepled fingers and allowed John to settle in against his side before dropping his elbow back down.

“Crisps.”

Sherlock passed them over without opening his eyes. They rode in comfortable silence, with the only sound being the occasional crispy crunch. John pretended not to notice when a large, bony hand slipped in every now and then to take a few.

One hour later, a rough bump in the road jolted him awake. He didn’t even notice when he’d dozed off. But he did notice the weight of another head atop his own, and the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest.

He adjusted slightly as to not disturb Sherlock and looked up. He had endearingly fallen asleep with his hands still loosely steepled, and his jaw hanging open. John smiled fondly and nestled further into his warmth before closing his eyes again.  
__________

 

Two hours later, the cab pulled up to the Walters’ house. ‘Mansion’ was a bit of an overstatement, John thought. It was large, but not overwhelmingly so.

It was three stories high and in relatively decent shape. Not overgrown or wilting like he expected a “haunted house” to be. In fact, it would have appeared quite picturesque to any passerby ignorant of its sinister history. 

The tall, metal gate was already opened for them, granting access to the cleared path to the front steps.

John and Sherlock paid the cabbie, unloaded their bags and journeyed down the winding path.

The front doors opened to reveal a grand entrance. Not at all what one would expect from the outside. A circular chandelier hung low from the ceiling, centered in between two curved staircases leading to the same second floor hallway. The interior of the house was mostly wooden, dark in color with an almost reddish glow. The deep burgundy walls were adorned with lantern lights that cast a warm glow throughout the area.

“Well alright. What do you think, Sherlock? Nice place to rent for a vacation home?”

“Don’t make jokes when you’re nervous John. Just bring the bags in so we can settle in and get started.”

John smiled at the little quip. It seemed Sherlock knew him well enough to point out his unease before he had even noticed the pooling anxiety in his stomach himself.

Sherlock swished off to begin his exploration leaving John to haul all of their bags to the master bedroom himself. When he finally found it, he stood in the doorway for a moment simply admiring it.

There was one king sized four-poster bed against the center wall with blood red curtains draping on either side of it. Matching pillows of all sizes adorned the plush, beige comforter. The rest of the room was lavishly furnished with dark brownish-red furniture, beautifully engraved with intricate designs. The only lighting came from the dim candles and lanterns around the room.

At least there was plenty of room for both of them on the bed, John thought gratefully as he pulled their bags into the room.

“Take yours upstairs,” came a familiar voice beside him, making him jump.

“What?”

“We’ll need to sleep on separate floors to monitor unusual nighttime activity to the best of our abilities.”

“Oh.” John tried to hide the pang of disappointment in his chest.

They usually slept in the same bed when they traveled together, purely out of convenience. It had started on one case when the only hotel room available had just one bed. It was cheaper and smarter to be in close quarters if something came up and they needed to reach each other. Plus, with John’s history of PTSD, it was easier to have someone with him at night when sleeping in an unfamiliar setting. It just worked for them.

It was a little detail about their lives that they never talked about or shared with anyone. They knew it was one of the many little things they did that blurred the line between platonic and something more. It was better if they just didn’t mention it.

John had always hoped those nights they shared together huddled close meant something more to Sherlock, like they did for him. That maybe he also enjoyed the intimacy of sharing body heat and discussing the day’s events in tired mumbles over the pillows. And that perhaps they were both unnecessarily taking advantage of these opportunities to be as close as possible.

But it seemed that to him, it had always just been about the case and the convenience, if he really wanted John to move upstairs this time.

Trying his hardest not to slump his shoulders, he hauled his duffel down the hall and up the grand staircase. The room he chose was rather small for the size of the house, but still charmingly furnished and decorated with thin white curtains and lavender blue accessories.

Once settled in, Sherlock told him his plan to divide and conquer.

“Split up? Sherlock we don’t know this house at all. And did you not hear Josephine’s stories?”

Sherlock smirked at him like he was a child asking to hold his mommy’s hand. “What’s the matter, John? Afraid a ghost is going to jump out and get you?” He reached out and grabbed his arms in imitation. John pulled out of his grip.

“Not funny.”

“John. Allow me to do justice to your intelligence by assuming you don’t really believe this house is haunted.”

“Okay, obviously not. But better safe than sorry until we get a better feel for the place, yeah?”

Sherlock looked around, exaggerating his motions with big, bugging eyes. “Okay. Got a feel for it. I’ll go upstairs and you take the cellar. Not afraid of the basement are you?” he said with a smirk before walking away.

“And exactly what are we supposed to be looking for?” John called after him in annoyance.

“Anything useful. By now I trust you know what that is.”

_Prat._

The entrance to the cellar was exactly as unnerving as one might expect it to be. It was so dark John couldn’t see where the bottom of the stairs met the floor. He used his flashlight to guide his descent.

The cellar floor seemed damp and sticky. God knows from what. John had to duck throughout his exploration, as several broken beams and pipes hung low enough to hit his head. Cobwebs filled every crevice and corner. Dust coated his lungs with every breath. It seemed no one had been down here in years. Everywhere his flashlight landed revealed either empty storage space or broken furniture.

Then something caught his eye. He lit the wall across from him to reveal several deep scratches. He stepped back to give the light a larger circumference.

C. It was the letter C.

John moved the light to the right.

H.

He dragged the light across the whole wall to reveal an entire string of letters scratched into it with unhuman force.

C H R I S T I N E.

Christine. Who was Christine? John thought about calling Sherlock, but the door the ‘S’ passed over caught his attention. He opened it, ignoring the horrendous creak of unoiled hinges, and entered.

It seemed to just be a normal, empty room, he thought, shining his light around the wilting walls and broken beams. Not too unlike the rest of the cellar.

He turned to leave when the door slammed shut behind him. And his flashlight went out.

Ice cold panic shot through his veins as complete darkness engulfed him. He rushed forward and pulled at the handle but it was like something had bolted it shut.

He fumbled with the flashlight, but it stayed dead to the world. This was impossible. He had just replaced the batteries before leaving.

He unsuccessfully yanked at the knob once more before sheer terror overtook him and he began pounding his fists on the door.

“Sherlock!!” he screamed with all his might. He yanked again, realizing that Sherlock was two floors above him. He might as well have been calling for Lestrade back in London.

“SHERLOCK!” He pounded harder, his blood turning to ice.

The temperature suddenly dropped in the room. A cool draught rushed past him, raising goosebumps on all his exposed flesh. Then came another gust of cold air on the back of his neck. Cold air? Or . . . breath?

John pounded frantically on the door, screaming like he never had before in his life.

_“SHERLOCK!!”_

The prickling feeling of another presence behind him sent sharp tingles of fear down his spine.

The door miraculously opened, but he didn’t stop pounding until two large hands gripped his wrists.

“John! I’m here.” 

A familiar silhouette stood in front of him. His panicking ceased, but full body tremors still ripped through his body.

“John. Breathe. What happened?” Sherlock’s hands gripped his face, forcing him to steady himself.

“God, I don’t. . . the door-”

“Where’s your flashlight?”

He fumbled with it again only to find it miraculously worked again. He looked up into Sherlock’s now illuminated blue eyes and grounded himself in them.

He was safe.

Sherlock’s concentrated eyes darted back and forth between his, probably trying to tell if he was having a panic attack or not. John took a steadying breath.

“I’m okay,” he said as calmly as possible, trying to put his friend’s mind at ease.

“What happened?”

“The door shut behind me and . . . locked itself? I dunno. I felt cold breath on the back of my neck. Like someone was there. Or something? I’m not sure.”

Sherlock looked into his eyes as if waiting for him to say more. When he realized that’s all he was getting, he cocked an eyebrow in question.

“So . . . you somehow locked yourself in a dark, scary room and then felt a draft?” John didn’t miss the amusement Sherlock was trying so hard to conceal in his voice.

“No, Sherlock! I’m telling you-”

“No, it’s alright, John. I believe you,” he chuckled. “Large cellars tend to get quite cold around this time of year.”

John glared at Sherlock as much as he could in the dark, but allowed him to comfortingly lead him back to the stairs by the small of his back.

“How’d you hear me, anyway?” John asked as they ascended back to the main floor.

“I was already on my way down to look for you. I found something.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock got John settled in front of the fire with a cup of tea and left to fetch whatever he had found. John took the opportunity to look around the grand living room, stocked with old books, clocks, and maps. To top it off was an excessively large painting of Gina and William Walters. Gina’s eyes were small and stern, and seemed to look directly at the inhabitants of the room. 

Before John could study it for too long, Sherlock returned with a large wooden plate. John tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned forward.

It was a Ouija board. 

“Looks like the grandmother dabbled in witchcraft after all.” John reached out and stroked along it’s carved borders, studying the chipping letters. “I found it in the attic along with some other things you might expect. Candles, books, that sort of thing.”

“But how does this tell us anything useful? You said there are no real spirits involved here.”

“Well, obviously not, John!” Sherlock leapt up and began pacing around John’s chair, thinking out loud. “But this does tell us more about Gina herself. Who she was. What sort of things could have motivated her. Tomorrow we’ll look more into the Walters family history itself.”

He placed a hand on John’s shoulder from behind, making him nearly jump out of his skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” But this only served to amuse Sherlock even more. 

“Goodness, John. How will you last a whole weekend here if a dark basement has you nearly peeing in your pants?”

“Just fuck off, will you? Fucking prat.”

“I applaud your diverse vocabulary as always, John. It’s nearly one in the morning and tonight has been eventful enough. So I say we head off to bed. Yes?”

“Fine.”

“And keep an eye out for suspicious activity on your floor.”

“Yes, sir,” John mumbled sarcastically under his breath.

~~~~~~~~~~

Up in his second-floor room, he changed into his t-shirt and pants and climbed into bed. The last thing he had wanted to do was go to bed by himself tonight after what had happened.

God, he was still pissed at Sherlock for making a joke out it. He swore, on the days when he wasn’t fantasizing about tracing those damned cheekbones with his finger, he just wanted to fucking punch them in.

He turned on his side and closed his eyes, trying his hardest to ignore the prickling feeling in his spine that something was watching him. From behind. The same feeling he had gotten in the cellar. He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling so he could keep both sides of the room in his peripheral vision.

The white curtains danced gracefully in the night breeze, and the old, wooden ceiling creaked low and steady. The moonlight projected the shadows of tree branches all over the walls in crisscrossing patterns, and John didn’t know where to look. After tossing and turning for at least an hour, he just closed his eyes and tried to ignore it all.

Until he swore something touched his foot.

He leapt out of bed and grabbed his robe. That’s it. Whether he had imagined it or not, he wasn’t going to get any sleep like this. More annoyed with the night’s happenings than scared, he trudged downstairs and straight to the master bedroom.

“John?” Sherlock called sleepily over his shoulder as he entered and discarded his robe.

“Budge over.”

Sherlock moved without hesitation and allowed John to climb in behind him, the movement natural from having done it countless times before.

“You’re supposed to be watching your floor,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“Yeah, well. There’s a fucking draft upstairs too,” he joked half-heartedly, earning a warm, groggy chuckle in response.

“Of course there is.”

“And you’re still a prat,” he added, casting a lazy arm over Sherlock’s hips.

“As always,” he hummed and allowed John to press against his bare back and slip into a content slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of child death in this chapter

Sherlock busied himself the next day researching the Walter’s family, specifically Gina and her children. He assigned John the task of finding everything he could on the town in the years leading up to her suicide.Turns out there had actually been several missing children named in the area at the time. Gina’s missing child wasn’t an unusual case. Sherlock discovered that the Walters family had a history of various mental illnesses. Particularly an unusual number of schizophrenia cases.

Putting together the facts, he gave his current theory: Gina’s missing child was simply one of the many, and her suicide could possibly have been related to grief. Josephine’s memories could have been the result of dormant schizophrenia being triggered by something.

“Hallucinations, hearing voices, trust issues, all those things she described,” Sherlock said, pacing around the dining table. John sat on one corner with his laptop verifying all his information.

“It fits, John. She didn’t even trust her own mother’s recollection of her grandmother. Who would know Gina better than Christine? Besides maybe William, being her husband.”

“Hold on. Christine?”

“Yes. Gina’s firstborn. The child that didn’t go missing. Josephine’s mother.” He stopped his pacing at the look on John’s face. He felt he must have gone white. “Mean anything to you?”

“Sherlock, I forgot to mention yesterday. When I was in the cellar I found something too. Scratches in the wall. Too deep to be done by a human’s hand. Maybe an ax or something, I dunno. They spelled out the name ‘Christine.’”

Something seemed to dawn on Sherlock’s face.

“John. I think we need to investigate the cellar again. Tonight.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When the sun went down and the sky had gone dark, John and Sherlock prepared for their trip back downstairs. Flashlight batteries were all freshly replaced to avoid a repeat of what had happened last night.

_“I swear to you, Sherlock. I had just replaced them before we hit the road.”_

_“Yes, well, your memory’s gone to shit, old man. Is that grey I see on the side of your head?”_

_“Shut your mouth before I stuff my fist in it.”_

John had his gun in his trousers, more than ready to use if necessary.

_“Honestly, John. We’re the only ones here. Who could you possibly need to use that on?”_

_“You really want to know the answer right now?”_

_“I’m not the one preparing to shoot a ghost that doesn’t exist.”_

They descended the stairs together, flashlights in hand. John allowed himself a private smile when Sherlock graciously entered first. Because no matter how much he teased and laughed, he truly did care that he was nervous about going back down there.

John chuckled at how much lower Sherlock had to duck to avoid hitting his head against anything. It felt like a nice payback for all the times Sherlock could reach a high ladder or jump a fence, and he was left to struggle.

He led him to the wall and showed him the scratches.

“Wonderful eye, John,” he said. “This would have been easy to miss if you didn’t know exactly which wall to shine your light on.” John tried to deny how much his heart swelled with pride upon receiving praise from Sherlock.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And there’s the room.” He directed his light to the ‘S.’

Sherlock waited for a nod of consent from John before approaching the door.

At the god awful sound of the hinges, his anxiety came creeping back into the pit of his stomach. The sound of the door slamming behind him, the prickles down his spine, the cold breath . . .

Sherlock placed his hand on the back of his shoulder and led him in. Almost instantly, he calmed.

They waved their lights around, looking for anything of interest in this empty, seemingly random room in the back of the cellar. Sherlock felt around the walls, knocking on certain spots, wiggling loose boards and bricks.

Almost in an instant, something seemed to click and he began tearing away at the wilting, wooden boards.

“Get started on that side,” he ordered. “These beams were taken out by someone and put back. Very poorly I might add. Obviously someone was trying to hide something here.”

Something hard clattered to the floor after nearly ten minutes of ripping boards off the wall.

“Is that a . . .” John bent down to inspect it. “Is that a fucking _bone_?” Sherlock tore another chunk of wood off the wall and several connecting bones fell alongside it in a loose pile.

“Oh my god,” John breathed. It was small. A child’s skeleton. No older than five. “Do you think it’s-”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking slightly. For a minute, neither of them broke the stomach-churning silence. They could only stare at it, accepting the fact that someone had killed a child and stuffed its body into a wall to decompose. 

Sherlock’s voice piped up after some time sounding small and cautious. “John, I . . . there was more empty space in the wall. I could hear it.” John met his eye. They both knew what they would find there.

They each gripped another large section of wood on opposite sides. With a nod, they ripped it off together.

Seven or eight bodies worth of bones came pouring out of the hole. All small. All children. Sherlock and John looked inside and saw another few down below, still trapped in the wall.

John felt vomit rising in his stomach. All his years of service and medicine, and a child’s death was still something he could never take with stoicism. He leaned against a part of the wall that was still intact and covered his mouth.

Across the room, Sherlock didn’t appear to be doing much better. He stood still as a statue with his flashlight pointed to the ground, like he couldn’t look away. John remembered how he had panicked when Moriarty strapped a bomb to that innocent child. As much as he liked to pretend he was above it all, he knew he cared. Particularly when it came to children. He almost wanted to go and console his friend. It seemed he didn’t even know how to cope with what was in front of him. How to process that someone could commit such inhumane acts.

He was about to when a glint of something shiny caught his eye. One of the skulls had a chain of dog tags tangled around it. Perhaps the child’s father had served. Who knew. But the child had died with the dog tags around his or her neck, and no one had bothered to remove them before stuffing them in wall.

_We can’t just leave these here,_ one part of his mind insisted - the emotional part. 

_They’re just skeletons_ , offered his logical side, which often sounded exactly like Sherlock. _They’ve been decomposed for decades. There’s nothing we can do._

In a sort of compromise, John bent down and untangled the dog tags from the skull. When they caught onto another bone, he yanked in frustration, but a pair of pale, familiar hands quickly assisted him in freeing them. He put them around his neck and tucked them in his shirt.

With his back stiff like a soldier, he stood, ready to leave.

“Let’s go, John,” Sherlock whispered. He nodded solemnly. And this time it was John who led Sherlock out with a solid hand on his back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime later, they both settled in plush armchairs by the fireplace, hot cups of tea in hand. For a while there was only silence except for the logs crackling under the flames. John let his eyes glaze over as he stared into the fire.

“It was Gina,” Sherlock said quietly after some time. John nodded without tearing his gaze from the flames. “All the missing children. It was her. Including her own,” he added with finality.

John simply continued to stare into the fire. He knew if he didn’t, his eyes would travel up to the painting of Gina, and he couldn’t stand to look at her. 

He reluctantly had to agree Sherlock was right. There was no other explanation for all the facts. William Walters probably knew about what his wife did and wanted to protect his dear Josephine from ever coming near the house again. And Josephine was a little girl in a family with a history of schizophrenia when she experienced all those strange things. They couldn’t exactly take her word for it. 

As for his own experiences in the house? Perhaps Sherlock was right about that too. Being here had messed with his head. He easily could have imagined most of it. His memory could have altered what happened. There were no such things as ghosts, and they had to stick with the facts in front of them.

“John?” Sherlock asked gently, in attempt to break him from his comatose state.

“Yes. You’re right.”

“Good. Well, let’s get some rest then. And in the morning we can try to find some evidence to back our claims. Gina and William are both long dead, so charges can’t be pressed. It would be impossible to track down the children's families nearly two generations later. We just need something tangible to show Josephine.” Sherlock stood and gave John’s shoulder a comforting squeeze before heading to his room.

With that, they parted ways for the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

John laid on his back and touched the warm metal on his chest, giving the child the moment of respect it never got at the time of its death. After changing into his t-shirt and pants, he had decided to keep the tags on, as he felt some kinship to the child.

_Skeleton,_ he reminded himself. It was much easier to think of them that way. He now understood why Sherlock tried so hard to disassociate from the clients and victims he worked with. 

He turned on his side and tried his best to slip into the welcome unconsciousness of sleep.

Some hours later, John woke to a room that felt like winter. He tucked his blanket tighter around his shoulders to block off the biting cold.

The next moment, something ripped the blanket off his body, and a force flipped him onto his back.

He tried to shout but something covered his mouth. It felt like a hand. It felt like a whole body on top of him holding him down. But his eyes, well-adjusted to the dark, told him there was definitely no one there.

John’s shouts were again muffled by the hand pressing onto him. His kicking and thrashing got him nowhere. Whatever this force was was stronger than any human he had encountered.

He screamed again, going for volume rather than words. At this, the hand switched from his mouth to his throat, cutting off his voice entirely. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

The dog tags were yanked up in the air, bringing his neck with them and forcing his head to drop back. The chains twisted in the air, pinching his skin where they crossed.

Kicking and struggling, he grasped at the chains, trying to uncross them when he felt the sharp metal break into his skin.

It was trying to kill him. Whatever this thing was . . . it was trying to kill him.

His vision darkened from lack of oxygen as he began to lose his strength.

Suddenly another strong force pushed this thing off of him. The chains fell back down to his chest and the invisible hand left his throat. He touched his neck where the skin broke and gasped for breath.

Sherlock stood at his bedside, hair mussed and wearing only his pajama pants. He held a lamp in his hand as his chest heaved.

“Sherlock,” he croaked.

“John.”

John leapt out of bed, still catching his breath.

“Sherlock, you saw it this time. You must have seen it!”

“John.”

“What the hell was that?” 

“I . . . I don’t know.” He set the lamp back down on the nightstand.

John stood in front of him. He looked completely and utterly lost. Normally when Sherlock couldn’t explain something, he grew frustrated. He would stay up all night, screeching away at his violin, and being an utter pain until he figured it out. It was a game to him, and he didn’t like losing.

Not this time. He looked afraid. There was something he couldn’t explain, something dangerous, and it scared him.

His eyes darted down to John’s throat. He reached out and touched his thumb to the spot where his skin had broken.

“It’s superficial,” John said, imitating what Sherlock always said about his own injuries.

It was a weak attempt at humor. And a failed one at that. Sherlock’s eyes darted back up to meet his. They showed no hint of amusement.

“It’s gone now.”

“Yeah. Thank you."

"No need to thank me. It left on its own when I entered and prepared to fight."

"Huh . . . Will it come back, do you think?”

“No.”

That made sense, John thought. These things only seemed to happen to him when he was alone. He vaguely wondered why this _thing_ hadn't messed with Sherlock at all, but forced his mind to drop it. It was not something to contemplate at this hour. 

“Come on.” Sherlock gently pulled him back into the bed and settled in next to him. John rested his head on Sherlock’s bare shoulder, and they wrapped their arms around each other in mutual comfort. John could clearly hear and feel their hearts beating hard in their chests.

They didn’t sleep. They stayed awake in each other’s embraces, staring at the ceiling, offering silent comfort, and wondering what the hell they were going to do tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to an empty bed. He lay on his stomach with his arm outstretched as if it had been thrown over someone. Sherlock waking up before him was to be expected. He never slept long, and it seemed that somewhere between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m. they actually had fallen asleep.

What he did not expect was to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged in the rocking chair over in the corner of the bedroom.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

“You’re still here?”

“I think we can agree after last night that it’s best if we no longer split up.”

“Right,” John said, rubbing his tired face. “Agreed. No more splitting up.”

Still wearing only his pajama pants, Sherlock paced the room, laying out their plan for the day. John tried not to ogle his chest - pale, smooth and muscular, with the finest dark hairs scattered in the middle.

But redirecting his gaze towards his sleep-flushed face and mussed up hair only reminded him of the hours they spent awake last night. Wrapped in a cocoon of limbs, softly stroking skin and rubbing toes to let the other know they were still awake and not going anywhere.

“How does that sound?”

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, I know we didn’t get much sleep last night, but do pay attention.”

John met his eyes at his direct mention of the previous night. They had shared a bed on countless cases before but never talked about it. It was one of those things they silently agreed to keep safely hidden in the intimate darkness of the night time.

Sherlock’s eyes told him he was thinking the same thing. And that he also remembered the soft touches from last night, when they lay pressed together head to toe.

When the silence dragged on a bit too long for comfort, John loudly cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Hm. What I was _saying_ was, today I’ll look into the cases of the other children that disappeared before Gina’s suicide. You can research her background in witchcraft. Find out why she might have targeted the children.”

“Sherlock,” John mumbled, rubbing his face again.

“Hm?”

“Let’s just go home.”

“What?”

“Let’s leave. There’s some freaky shit going on here, and we don’t know what the hell we’re up against.”

“We’re on a case, John.”

“Sod the case.”

“Sod the-? What’s gotten into you?”

“Were you not here last night? Something almost killed me! I would’ve died if you didn’t show up.”

“Our lives have been at stake on numerous occasions before, John. We always make it through.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve always been up against a human. Humans are beatable.”

“What’s different this time, John? Of course we’re still up against a human.”

John gaped at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“John, whatever happened last night, there must be a logical, scientifically plausible explanation for it. We just have to find it.”

All John could do was stare at him and wonder what happened to the man from last night. The small, terrified man who had admitted he saw what happened and climbed into bed with him. The man who ran his thumb along his bleeding throat and apologized with his eyes for not believing him before.

Sherlock took his silence as a forfeit. “We promised Josephine three nights here. That’s what we’re going to give her.”

~~~~~~~~~~

 

That evening, John sat in his claimed armchair by the fire while Sherlock paced in front of him, pulling at his hair.

“No, no, _no!_ It doesn’t make sense!” John refrained from telling him that there indeed was an explanation for everything, but not one Sherlock wanted to acknowledge.

But after another minute of listening to him babble about facts and logic, he had to speak up.

“Sherlock, lo-” A brief panic in his chest halted his words. He couldn’t deny that the word “love” was just about to roll off his tongue with ease. But now wasn’t the time to contemplate why it had felt so natural to say that.

“Sherlock,” he started again. “Maybe there’s another way we need to look at this.” When he received no response he continued. “Whenever this thing messes with us, it’s always been-”

“This _'thing?'_ I hope you’re not trying to evasively refer to the paranormal, John.”

John leaned forward in his chair. “I really don’t appreciate you brushing off both my experiences and Josephine’s as if they didn’t happen.”

“Memories are unreliable. Studies have shown that nearly thirty percent of our memories are imperfect reconstructions of previous events.”

“Sherlock, you can’t deny that there’s something else going on here. The ghost-”

“There are no such things as _GHOSTS,_ John!” He was raising his voice now. John stood to match him eye for eye – well, as much as he could.

“Then how the bloody hell do you explain last night? Did I try to strangle myself? What about Josephine? She just made up her whole childhood, did she?”

“The Walters have a history of schizophrenia, and there’s a good chance it lay dormant in Josephine since birth. You know this already. And John, with your history of PTSD, we don’t know that this wasn’t some kind of panic attack. With utmost respect, we can’t really trust your word either."

“Well you can bloody well trust the _fucking BRUISES_ on my neck!!”

Sherlock’s eyes darted down once more to the finger-sized purple marks covering his throat, and the scabbed red line where the chain had cut him. His eyes softened for the briefest moment, but were stone cold again just as quickly. He scoffed and resumed his frantic pacing.

“Go on then, genius. What’s your theory?” John challenged, crossing his arms. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with Sherlock. At this point he was blindly denying what was in front of his face. It simply killed him inside that he couldn’t explain it away with science and logic.

Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of the fireplace, looking like he was ready to explode in frustration. He picked up the Ouija board, which had been perched nicely on the mantelpiece.

“This is not where I left it. I remember perfectly well setting this on the dining table to look at later.” John felt it would be a bad time to remind him that _‘memories were unreliable.’_ He could practically see the calculations flying around his head as he tried to figure out how it had moved on its own.

He visibly trembled with frustration and pent up anger, and then threw the board across the room. The moment it hit the wall, they heard a low growl. Like the house itself was pissed. The vibration was quickly followed by the sound of an angry scratch and an invisible force shoving Sherlock onto the floor.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock sat up, clutching at his chest. He pulled his hand away to reveal three lines slashed through his shirt, over his left pectoral, and blood oozing out of the gashes in his skin.

Their eyes met in mutual horror. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat shirtless on an armchair as John knelt in front of him, dabbing ointment onto the three slashes. They weren’t that deep, but they bled quite a bit. 

His head hung low, as if he knew he was wrong and couldn’t deny it any longer. John decided not to bug him about it quite yet.

Instead he focused on cleaning his chest. He brushed his thumb over a patch of skin a bit too slowly . . . a bit too softly . . . lingering a bit too long. His eyes met Sherlock’s for the briefest moment before darting back down to the cuts.

He wiped the blood off his hand before running the tips of his fingers down in between the gashes. This touch wasn’t clinical at all. He just needed to feel the warmth of his skin and the thump of his heart underneath.

Sherlock shivered just slightly at his touch. Or was it a flinch? Did it sting? John pulled his hand away apologetically and returned to his medical task. He took a gauze roll out of the first aid kit and unraveled three long strips.

Placing each one on a cut, he took the opportunity to run his hands down his chest again, making sure the gauze was secure. When the third one was covered, he pointedly didn’t remove his hands. 

The urge to lean forward and kiss over the bandages suddenly overtook every fiber in his being. His head began to lower seemingly of its own free will. With his lips hovering mere inches from his chest, he broke out of this hypnotic state and realized what he was doing.

Glancing up, he found Sherlock gazing down at him with mixed confusion and awe. He straightened back up, running his hands over his bare torso. 

“Do you believe me now?” he asked gently, his hand skimming over the bandages again. Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled, and he looked genuinely afraid. His face noticeably paled at the reminder of what had just happened.

“Hey, now . . .” John soothed, and pulled Sherlock’s head into his chest.

He just held him there for a moment, feeling his trembling breaths and wordless apologies. 

“You okay?” he asked, lifting his chin just slightly. 

“Yes.”

“Sure?” There was hesitation in his eyes.

“I’m. . . I’m afraid, John,” he confessed into the quiet space just between them.

“Shh, I know.” He pulled Sherlock back against him, this time with his cheek tucked warmly against his jumper. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

“I’m always afraid,” Sherlock whispered, almost to himself.

“What?” He stopped himself from adding ‘love’ once again.

“I’m always afraid,” he continued. “On cases. Of putting you in danger. I’m afraid because . . .” He swallowed thickly, as if forcing the words out. John allowed him to take his time, tenderly running his fingers through curls on his nape.

“Because I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt because of me," he finished, fully burying his face into the jumper. 

John took his face in his hands and forced him to meet his eyes. There was vulnerability there, and something else as well . . .

Heat. And passion.

He began to lean down as if being drawn to a magnet. His eyes flickered between Sherlock’s plush lips and watering eyes. When Sherlock made no move to stop him, he stroked his thumb once over his cheekbone. His mouth now hovered about three inches from him, staying back just far enough to deny his intentions if needed.

He stilled, waiting for Sherlock to close that last bit of space between them. He convinced himself it was out of courtesy, and not cowardice. 

One moment, Sherlock's eyes were fluttering closed as he decidedly gave in. The next, they were jumping apart at the deafening crash behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got ridiculously long, so my beta rightly advised me to split it in two. So stay tuned for the rest of their third night in the Walters house :)
> 
> All comments and kudos are greatly, greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

He stilled, waiting for Sherlock to close that last bit of space between them. He convinced himself it was out of courtesy, and not cowardice.

One moment, Sherlock's eyes were fluttering closed as he decidedly gave in. The next, they were jumping apart at the deafening crash behind them.

“What the bloody fuck?!”

The portrait of Gina and William Walters had tumbled down from its spot above the fireplace, and now lay flat at their feet. John's spine tingled at the sight of Gina’s, small, stern eyes staring accusingly up at him instead of down.

“It seems this house really doesn’t like us.”

He tried to hide his disappointment when Sherlock snapped right back to business. Whatever was just about to happen had dissolved into the air - the moment lost forever.

“Alright. Sherlock,” he began as gently and cautiously as possible. “I think it’s time we entertain the possibility of something paranormal being at work here, yes?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed into a tight line, but he didn’t object.

“I have a theory of my own that I’m gonna share, okay?” No response. John was thankful he at least wasn’t shutting him down. “I think Gina used the Ouija board to contact some kind of spirit.”

Sherlock’s face stayed neutral, but he could tell he was listening.

“You always hear about people striking deals with these things, right?” John knew how completely ridiculous he sounded, but he pushed on. “Maybe that's what Gina did.”

“If she made a deal and paid the agreed upon price, why would it still be haunting the Walter’s family?”

John pondered for a moment. “Maybe . . . she never paid up then? Since the spirit never got its end of the deal before she died, wouldn’t it stay until someone else set things right?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “In mythology, it’s always a family member that has to pay the price for such deals. It has to be someone in the bloodline or it doesn’t count. So why would it mess with us?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe it’s bored?” he joked. “Look, Sherlock. I know if you don’t solve this, it’ll tear you apart not knowing. So let’s tackle this together for one last night, okay? And if we don’t get anywhere, we go home.”

“Agreed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock led John upstairs and pulled down the ladder to the attic. The two of them climbed up, flashlights in hand. He showed him the box where he’d found the Ouija board and other paraphernalia.

While he dug through it, John explored the other half of the dark, cramped space.

He gasped and jumped back at what he found almost immediately. “Sherlock. I think you’ll want to see this.”

He directed his light to the Hebrew letters carved into the floor, the same way “Christine” was scratched into the cellar wall.

“ _Moloch_.” Sherlock breathed. He handed John a large, dusty book and flipped open to a bookmarked page:

_‘Demon of Child Sacrifice'_

“Oh my god,” John breathed. His mind flashed to the children’s skeletons in the cellar. A look from Sherlock told him he was thinking the same.

“Why so many?”

Sherlock flipped through the dusty pages, squinting at the faded print. “It says that when making a contract with a mortal, Moloch will sometimes request the firstborn child in the bloodline. That would have been Christine at the time.”

“But Christine lived to adulthood and had Josephine. It was Gina’s second child that mysteriously went missing.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. John could tell from his voice that pieces were coming together in his mind. “Gina favored Christine. That much was obvious. She never would have wanted to give her up. My guess is that she sacrificed her second born in hopes that it would suffice.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No. And I'm guessing Gina also tried to offer up all those other children as a substitute as well. But Moloch wanted Christine and only Christine. Perhaps the hackings in the cellar wall were a brutal reminder of that.”

“But Gina decided she’d rather kill herself than give up Christine," John continued for him, as the pieces clicked in his mind as well. "So Moloch never got his firstborn sacrifice and continued to haunt the family.”

“Precisely.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards in that unsettling way when someone caught his interest. The fear John had seen earlier was gone. In its place was a drive - a set determination to solve this.

"Then Christine grew up and Josephine became the next firstborn in the bloodline. So Moloch set his eyes on her instead." 

The floor beneath them trembled slightly, and another low growl vibrated throughout the house. They stumbled flowered and gripped each other’s forearms for balance.

“I guess that’s our cue to get out of the attic.” 

_More like our cue to get out of this bloody house,_ John thought.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back on the main floor, John’s disgust with Gina still made him want to chuck up his dinner onto the perfectly clean, patterned carpet. 

The lights above them flickered rapidly as they journeyed down the hallway. Moloch clearly did not like them being hot on his trail.

“JOHN WATCH OUT.” Sherlock shoved him into the door to the master bedroom, covering him with his body as a massive light fixture fell onto the spot they were just standing.

The light itself flickered wildly and then burned out, leaving them in complete darkness.

“Shit . . .” John whispered. Sherlock didn’t move for several long moments. He stayed pressed against him in the dark, breathing onto the side of his head. John didn’t mind. In fact, he quite enjoyed the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

Hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice in the darkness, he slightly turned his nose to breathe in the scent of his curls, shamelessly indulging in their closeness the same way he had in front of the fireplace. He shivered remembering how goosebumps had raised on every bit of pale skin his fingers skimmed over. How they had been so close, he could feel Sherlock's warm puffs of breath on his lips.

So John let him stay there, assuming he was just catching his breath. That was, until long fingers slowly trailed down his arm and laced through his own.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, relaxing into the door as Sherlock began running his nose along his cheek and jaw. He brought his free hand up to card through the curls on his nape. His other hand was lifted by their joined fingers and pressed gently into the door.

A few hot, orange sparks shot out of the broken light before landing on the carpet and fizzling out.

John flinched at the sudden flicker of light.

“Scared, John?” Sherlock drawled low into his ear, when they were surrounded by darkness once more. 

“Shut up,” John breathed, and guided his head into a proper kiss, soft yet insistent. Sherlock released his hand, allowing them both to cup the other’s jaw.

John was instantly drunk on the feeling of his warm, plush lips. He kissed him again and again, chasing the feeling. The primal need to continue seemed to be mutual, as Sherlock kept pulling his face closer to deepen each kiss.

 _What the hell are we doing,_ John thought as he reached down behind him to turn the doorknob to the bedroom.

They crashed inside, and Sherlock immediately crowded him up against the nearest wall. Not as a means of control and dominance, but as if he was afraid he'd leave if he didn’t hold him in place.

He dipped his head and began mouthing underneath his jaw, worshipping his skin. John sighed and rolled his head back in pleasure, exposing more of his neck. His eyes fluttered closed as he lost himself in the sensations.

The only sounds in the dark room came from the soft kisses Sherlock was placing down his neck. All over his bruises, and brushing over his cut. John ran his hands up his bare back, thankful he hadn’t put his shirt back on after being bandaged.

One hand found a home in his curls, and the other roamed his muscled back. Sherlock was sucking at the base of his throat now, no doubt leaving a mark. John was ever so grateful for the wall supporting him, as his weakening knees would have definitely given in by now.

Sherlock untucked his shirt and ran his hands over his waist. At the contact to his bare skin, all the warm tingles in his body headed south. He cautiously brought a knee up and, to his pleasant surprise, found Sherlock just as hard as him.

Sherlock practically growled at the touch and raked his teeth hard over his windpipe. John gasped at the sudden roughness and lifted Sherlock’s face from his neck to show him he could return it. He kissed him again, all teeth and lips and tongue. Nothing like the warm tenderness from the hallway.

They slotted their legs together and used each other’s thighs for a bit of much needed friction. John shamelessly moaned as he ravished the mouth he had fantasized about since first seeing it. Sherlock gripped his head, returning his every move and hardly letting him breathe.

When Sherlock shifted his hips slightly more to the center and thrust in a particularly gratifying way, he threw his head back again.

“Yeah, just like that, love,” he breathed without even thinking.

Sherlock stopped all movement and stepped back. 

John’s heart dropped into his stomach. Was this not what he thought it was? Did Sherlock just feel ramped up from the danger and adrenaline and need an immediate release? Was he not supposed to bring feelings into this?

“Sherlock?” he asked cautiously, his stomach knotting with anxiety. His eyes seemed to be unfocused and darting around, like they did when he was solving a puzzle.

“Be right back,” he shot and practically bolted out of the room. It was the kind of “Be right back” that meant he was leaving and not returning.

John felt the rejection like a stab in his heart. He wanted to go back in time and smack himself. To shove his stupid words back down his throat. That one little slip, and their relationship was changed forever. That one little word, and he could never brush this off as the work of adrenaline.

Caught between crippling embarrassment and concern for Sherlock, he stayed against the wall, in the safety and concealment of the dark room. After debating what to do for a minute, he finally swallowed his pride and followed him. Outside, he carefully avoided the smashed fixture on the ground and weaved through the hallways before finding him in the kitchen.

“Hey, Sherlock?”

He was standing with his back facing him, muttering to himself like a madman.

“Sherlock, is everything alright?” he tried again.

“John. You need to leave right now.”

“What?” he asked, taken aback. He felt his heart break all over again, until Sherlock spun around to face him. He was white as a sheet.

“We need to get you out of here. You’re not safe.”

“What do you-”

He grabbed his arm and pulled him towards his laptop. He had several ancestry documents and records of family history already pulled up.

“Something didn’t make sense, something wasn’t clicking, I didn’t realize…” he was muttering under his breath, sounding more and more like he belonged in a psychiatric ward.

He pulled up a record of Gina Walters. “Her maiden name, John.”

 _Abbott._ “That . . . was my mum’s last name.”

“John. I think you might be related to the Walters.”

John’s head was spinning. There was a gap in his knowledge for his mum’s side of the family, so he couldn’t exactly dispute it. Nor could he argue with his mother’s name showing up as one of Gina’s nieces.

“Well, shit.” This certainly explained why strange things had only happened to him. Nothing happened to Sherlock until he chucked a Ouija board across a room.

“John, you are distantly in the Walters bloodline. Moloch has reason to want to harm you specifically. We must leave immediately.”

As if on cue, the entire house shook again with a deep growl. The lights sparked and two picture frames fell from the wall.

“What the hell does it want with me? I’m not a child anymore!” 

“Exactly. You're can't be sacrificed, and have no child yourself. You're in the bloodline that has denied him his end of a deal for two generations, but have nothing to offer him. He has no reason to not just kill you himself out of spite.” They ducked as sparks flew their way. “And probably doesn’t help that we’ve been on his trail all weekend.”

“How do we get rid of it?”

“We can’t. We just need to leave and make sure no one ever enters this house again.”

Again as if on cue, the last lantern on the wall fell. The glass smashed, and flames erupted onto the dangling curtains and nearby wood. 

Fire surrounded them. Smoke clouded their vision. Keeping low to the ground, they looked for an escape. All of the entrances to hallways were blocked off by fire except one. They nodded to each other in understanding, and bolted toward it, making it out just before it was overtaken by flames.

Escaping the kitchen was only a momentary relief. 

All the lanterns in the hallway and living room had already set fire to the rest of the house. John began coughing into his sleeve when smoke got in his lungs.

“John!” Sherlock barked over the commotion. “Keep your mouth covered and stay down.”

Hunched low, and with their arms around each other for support, they navigated through the thickening smoke towards the grand entrance.

The front door seemed to have bolted itself shut. _Of course,_ John thought. It wouldn’t be as simple as just walking out.

Sherlock began kicking at the door with all his might as John searched for something to break it down with.

“John, I got it!" Sherlock yelled when he finally got one foot through. He began widening the gap to be big enough for them to escape through. "Come help me!”

But John was paralyzed to the spot, watching the cracks appear around the chandelier, as if an invisible being was axing them into the ceiling.

J

“John!”

O

The chandelier began to tauntingly swing back and forth.

H

“John, move!!” He couldn’t. He was frozen. The chandelier gained momentum as the ‘N’ was etched into the ceiling, right before-

Sherlock practically tore him away just as the chandelier crashed onto the spot he was just standing. They guarded their faces as broken glass flew in all directions.

John snapped out of his petrified trance and was all but shoved through the hole in the door by Sherlock. He tumbled out onto the front porch. Flipping onto his back, he gave himself a moment to breath in the crisp, clean night air, and cough out the last bit of smoke in his lungs.

Panic struck when he noticed Sherlock didn’t fall out after him.

Looking back through the hole, the smoke was almost too thick to see through, and fire was beginning to catch at the edges of the door.

“Oh, no you fucking don’t.” John leapt back inside to find Sherlock in a fetal position coughing and hacking on the ground, his figure barely visible through the smoke. He lifted Sherlock’s arms around his shoulder, supporting nearly all his weight. With him safely in his arms, they dove back outside, collapsing onto the porch together.

He landed on top of Sherlock, cradling his head to prevent it from hitting the ground. “Thank you,” Sherlock said coarsely.

“Don’t think you can fucking ditch me that easily, Holmes,” he said lightly, just between them. They shared a warm smile before a horrendous creak snapped their gazes to the front yard.

The gate was beginning to close.

John climbed off of Sherlock and helped him up. Hand in hand, they bolted down the front steps and down the path, watching as the gap that was their last hope of escape narrowed more and more.

As they approached, he could feel Sherlock starting to push him ahead, ensuring that he would make it through first.

“No you fucking don’t,” he growled again. He wrapped his arms securely around his waist and pulled them both through just before the gate closed with a final bang.

They were safe.

Collapsed side by side on the pavement, they caught their breath and listened to the house continue to go up in flames. The soft crackles, the collapsing beams . . .

“All of our stuff is still in there,” John gasped between heaving breaths.

“Items can be replaced, John.” Sherlock found his hand and squeezed. “You cannot.”

They simultaneously turned their heads on the pavement, both immensely grateful for the other’s presence. In complete seriousness, Sherlock added, “Except maybe your phone. We’ll probably need that.”

The absurdity of everything they had just been through caught up to them, and they broke out in a fit of adrenaline-fueled giggles.

“God, we are never taking a case like that again,” John said through his laughter, as they sat up and dusted dirt, grime, and rubble off each other.

“Yes, well . . ." Sherlock cracked a light hearted smile. "Good thing there’s no such things as ghosts, am I right John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I completely made up pretty much everything about Moloch. So if anyone is more knowledgable on all that mythology stuff and was like "wtf"... I'm sorry lol
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

The cab arrived for them about twenty minutes later, since they were so far out from the city. 

Sherlock first suggested calling Lestrade to handle the burnt down building, but John gently told him he probably wouldn’t appreciate receiving that phone call: “Oh hey Gavin, hope you’re well. By the way, we’ve just burned down a mansion about four hours from London. Could you take care of that for us? Thanks.”

Sherlock agreed, and was much happier to dump the problem in Mycroft’s lap. Now, as far as the government was concerned, the Walter’s mansion never existed.

Settled in the back of the cab, John sized up Sherlock’s condition. He had just run through a burning building shirtless and was now consequently covered in scrapes and cuts. John immediately removed his jumper and wrestled it onto him.

And it was like getting a child into a winter coat on Halloween night.

“I’m fine, John!”

“Sherlock, stop it. You’ll bloody freeze to death.”

“I don’t need your hideous jumper!”

“Stop. _Kicking_.” 

Not ten minutes later though, John started to feel the cold bite of the October air through his thin t-shirt, and it was him who was bloody freezing to death instead. He rubbed up and down his arms, and tried to ignore the white puffs of breath appearing in front of his face. 

Next to him, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sight of him trying to suppress his shivers in the dark.

“Oh, just come here, John.”

They both scooted towards the middle until they were pressed together from the shoulders down to their legs. Between the jumper, t-shirt, and their proximity, they managed share enough body heat to at least not get frostbite. 

John lifted Sherlock’s splintered hands, breathed onto them, and rubbed them together between his own. Sherlock let him, sighing in appreciation at the burst of warmth. He reciprocated afterwards by wrapping his arms around John and rubbing circulation back into his arms. 

“First thing we’re doing when we get home is getting you in a hot bath.” 

“No, first thing we’re doing when we get home is going the fuck to sleep.” It meant to come out as a playful, yet somewhat serious retort, but the effect was lost through his chattering teeth and shaking voice. 

Sherlock hushed him and pulled him in closer to his own jumper. Huddled in a cocoon of arms and dwindling body heat, they fell asleep and remained so until the cab screeched to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Josephine cried over the news of her grandmother.

John sat with his arm comfortingly on the back of her chair. As Sherlock explained what they found in the mansion, her sobs quickly transformed into tears of relief. Her childhood trauma was resolved, and she wasn’t crazy as everyone had believed.

For security’s sake, she understood that everything had to be kept under wraps. The mansion never existed, and they never met. When John and Sherlock broke the news that she shouldn’t have children if she didn’t want to pass on the curse to another generation, they were relieved she conveniently didn’t want any.

Josephine thanked them with tearful hugs. If no prosecution came out of this, at least she had closure and could live the remainder of her life in peace. With that, they cordially parted ways.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the door to the 221B closed after her, a still silence settled over the flat. 

The inevitable question of ‘Now what?’ hung in the air. They couldn’t beat around what had happened between them in the mansion forever.

John turned to fully face Sherlock for the first time since they arrived home last night at nearly 4 a.m. They had instantly kicked their shoes off and crashed into Sherlock’s bed – fully clothed and too exhausted to even say goodnight. When daylight filtered through the window and woke them a few hours later, they had immediately called Josephine, wanting to close this case as soon as possible.

Now, in their first moment of complete calmness since taking the case, he sized him up for remaining injuries.

Minor scratches were scattered about Sherlock’s face and arms. He had showered and changed into a shirt and dress pants, but still appeared drained. Splinters covered his hands, which thankfully now had their color restored.

John let his eyes travel back up to his chest, remembering his cuts.

“Did you replace the bandages after your shower?”

“No need. They stopped bleeding.”

“Well, let me check on them at least. Come over here to the kitchen. Better lighting.”

John let Sherlock lean back against the table as he began unbuttoning his shirt for him. He spread the two halves wide open, revealing a pale, nearly hairless torso with three angry, pink lines over the left pectoral. They were healing fine, just as Sherlock as said. Sherlock remained silent as he slid his hands over the bare skin.

John still wasn’t sure if what had happened in the mansion had meant anything to Sherlock at all, and didn’t know how to ask him. He had never seemed particularly interested in sex or romance before, and certainly not with him. He had made that especially clear their very first night.

It was possible that they were similar in the sense that they both got off on danger. Perhaps he had just needed an immediate outlet, and John happened to be a nearby, willing party.

The thought cut deep in his gut. Now that he knew the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his own, the feeling of his hands and mouth on his body, he couldn’t forget it.

Sherlock might be able to brush this under the rug and pretend it never happened. Heck, the man had probably already deleted it, now that he had no immediate need for sexual stimulation.

But John couldn’t do it. He couldn’t forget.

“Did you mean it?” came Sherlock’s voice, low and quiet and pulling him out of his thoughts. 

John looked up and realized he still had his hands on Sherlock’s chest, and had been gradually inching closer. So close, he could see his small reflection in Sherlock’s aquamarine eyes. They were serious and slightly stern, pointedly staring back down at him.

John cleared his throat. “Did I mean what?” Even to himself, his voice sounded cracked and unsteady in the still, quiet kitchen.

“What you called me.”

His memory unhelpfully flooded his mind with images of them pressed against a wall in the dark room, thrusting against each other’s thighs. Sherlock kissing his neck, and him stupidly letting that word slip out of his mouth without a second thought.

He looked away uncomfortably. So Sherlock _did_ remember.

John’s stomach churned, and he suddenly wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. A moment ago, he was dying to clear the air. Now, he felt he’d rather wait another day to permanently ruin their relationship.

“I call you lots of names,” he tried, in an attempt to playfully change the topic. 

“You know what I’m referring to.” Sherlock trailed the backs of his long, pale fingers along the bruises on his throat. John subtly shifted away from the touch. He really wished he wouldn’t touch him like that anymore if he didn’t share his intentions.

He sighed and slid his hands down to grip the sides of his open shirt. “Look, Sherlock. I’d rather not-”

 _“John.”_ He flinched. Sherlock’s voice was stern. “Did. You. Mean it.”

John bit his lip and looked further away. A knot formed in his chest and he felt a flush creep into his cheeks. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the hot tears forming behind his eyes.

Here goes everything. The best years of his life. The most fulfilling relationship he’d ever had with anyone.

He slowly met Sherlock’s penetrating stare with glassy eyes and nodded once.

Sherlock exhaled and hung his head, like a disappointed parent. The pang hit John in the chest like a lead weight, and he jumped to explain himself. To defend himself. Anything to save what they had.

“But I know you’re not interested in that kind of thing. I understand and respect that, Sherlock. Trust me, I do,” he scrambled. “And if you want to forget about what happened, we can forget it and just be friends. We can continue exactly like we were before. We don’t have to-”

“John, please. For the love of God. Shut up.”

John clamped his jaw shut, the sharp words slicing through his heart. He blinked harder as the hot tears pooling in his ducts threatened to spill.

"What on earth makes you think I want to forget what happened?”

“You don’t . . . do that kind of thing.”

“I believe the hickey on your neck would beg to differ.”

John choked out a wet laugh. “So, you’re not . . . disappointed in me?”

Sherlock looked taken aback. “And why on earth would I be disappointed?” he asked, sounding almost angry at the ludicrous suggestion.

John shrugged one shoulder. “Falling prey to sentiment. You pride yourself on being so above it all. And . . . you seemed pretty disappointed just now.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched up in bewilderment. “John,” he started, with an amused twinkle in his eye. “I was relieved. Not disappointed.” He gripped John’s wrists over his shirt and stroked once over the skin. “Never disappointed.”

John’s heart nearly leapt a foot out of his chest. He swallowed and chose his next words cautiously, careful not to sound too hopeful. “So, what you’re saying is-”

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock swept in and kissed him hard on the mouth, pulling him in by his face. After a brief moment of initial shock, John returned it with equal passion, as if he had been expecting it. Gripping his curls, he stepped boldly into the kiss. Although he was shorter, he used his weight advantage to press him further into the table as he positively devoured his mouth.

“But I am disappointed in you now,” Sherlock said between kisses, his voice husky with arousal. “For taking so long to understand what I was trying to tell you. I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“Shut your mouth, you prat,” John growled, pulling Sherlock’s hair to the side and scraping his teeth along his jaw.

Sherlock lifted his head, inviting him to explore the white column of his neck. “You do call me a colorful variety of names, don’t you,” he teased.

John nipped hard at his throat, effectively shutting him up.

Sherlock hissed approvingly through his teeth before guiding his face back up and sucking his lips back between his own.

“You’re insufferable,” John murmured against his mouth.

“Yes, but you love it.”

“God help me, I do.”

They kissed like they had been doing it since the dawn of time. Like it was a choreographed dance, and they could predict each other’s every move. Like they were a single unit, moving in harmonized union. 

At last, three rapid knocks on the front door broke the spell. Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from his lips with a look that somehow combined curiosity and seething fury at whoever had interrupted them.

John on the other had was simply confused. Who the hell would be visiting them now? 

The door creaked open without invitation. The first sign of something amiss. Slow footsteps approached. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his body tensing and alert. With a single look, they agreed to confront whoever was in their midst together.

 _Or whatever has followed us home from Manchester,_ the back of John’s mind provided, as a prickle of fear trickled down his spine.

As a shadow grew larger and closer to the kitchen, John felt Sherlock brace for potential danger, shifting so he was half covering him from the intruder. 

“Hoo hoo,” piped a familiar voice as Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner to the kitchen.

John and Sherlock simultaneously released the breaths they were holding and stepped apart.

“Thought I’d welcome you boys back from your trip with a fresh batch of-” She halted in her tracks and took in their tousled hair, flushed faces, and swollen, red lips. And then Sherlock’s open shirt and the fresh love bites decorating his neck.

After a moment of looking back and forth between them, she silently set the tray of cookies down and let herself back out, muttering something about “decency” and “two bedrooms.”

As the door closed behind her, silence once again settled over the flat. Ever so slowly, John turned his head back towards Sherlock’s. The moment their eyes met, they burst into shared laughter and looked away again.

“What the hell just happened,” John said through breathy giggles.

“Are you referring to our newly advanced relationship, or Mrs. Hudson walking in on you sporting a boner in the kitchen?”

“Oi.”

Sherlock chuckled warmly and pulled him back in by the waist. “Well, it was nice of her to provide us with some post-sex snacks, don’t you think?”

John’s lips spread into a cheeky grin. “And what makes you think I’m going to have sex with you?” he asked, leaning into him and knowing full well that that’s what he was about to do. His stomach fluttered with anticipation at the mere thought. 

“It’s not going to get rid of itself, now is it,” Sherlock mumbled teasingly, glancing down between them.

John rolled his eyes but glanced down at himself anyway. Sure enough, the bulging tent in his pants was way more visible than he thought it would be. He briefly felt embarrassed for Mrs. Hudson's sake. 

Sherlock caught his eye and began backing up to the bedroom, the invitation clear in his twinkling, mischievous eyes. John followed without hesitation, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so. 

“Fine. But when the cookies are cold and hard, just know it’s your fault.”

Sherlock indistinctly mumbled something along the lines of “not as hard as you,” and slammed the bedroom door shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!!!!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading this, and huge thanks to my beta Munya (@music-over-matter on tumblr)!
> 
> Honestly this was supposed to be a one-shot, like no longer than 4k. And it turned into . . . this. Lol, so thank you for reading and being patient!
> 
> Please comment and let me know your thoughts :)


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